


the boiling point

by highways



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Homophobic Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 08:59:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1504478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highways/pseuds/highways
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leo's always preferred boys, but he's never had a type until stepping into high school, never really cared for what kind of boy he liked until he suddenly did, wanted to be fucked in the locker rooms by the basketball captain, face pressed against the sting of the cold metal doors, back arching and moulding to the flit of someone's fingers down his spine.</p><p>aka, the one where Cristiano's the MVP basketball captain and Leo is essentially a nobody.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the boiling point

**Author's Note:**

> afka "idek what this fic turned out to be anymore lmao i just really really really like all kinds of cliches i pretty much live and breathe them jesus.doc"
> 
> This was keysmashing of naggy plot ideas over the last five or so hours of my Easter weekend (bc I didn't want to study for my upcoming test oops), so I sincerely apologize for any grammar mistakes, poor execution skills, and overall piece of shit writing lol.

  
  
  
  
  
It starts in detention.  
  
Leo's never gotten detention before, has never even been reprimanded by a teacher in his whole twelve years of education. He's always been the kind of student who floats through high school virtually unknown, invisible: no friends, no sports, no specialty whiz subject. His average was a solid 75 through most years, but he was always quiet, not prone to abject notions of delinquency. The teachers either liked him enough to ignore him, or they simply didn't care, probably didn't even know his name to begin with.  
  
They get a sub that day with a thick Indian accent and a vein already pulsing warningly on his bald head. He barks out the sheet of instructions Guardiola had given him for the class, emphasizes on the last point, where Guardiola asks him to check their homework. Leo, of all times, forgets to do it last night, and when the sub rounds to his row, he tries to stammer out a lame excuse. The sub's not there for it the moment he sees a blank desk and Leo’s mouth start to open, and he yells, "Detention!" as loud as he can seem to, gets everyone turning around to face Leo. It's the first time he's ever gotten attention from more than one person simultaneously as much as it is the first time he's ever gotten detention. Leo can't help but think the trade off is a bit unfair.  
  
So he sits in detention, alone, at the farthest table from the teacher's desk. It's a Tuesday, so Villas Boas is supervising, but he keeps on checking his wrist watch every few seconds, is obvious he'd rather be somewhere else than here. It makes the two of them, Leo thinks, but he'd also be lying if he said he had anything better to do than detention, would probably just end up finishing homework like he’s doing now, if he was back at home.  
  
The door opens, and someone barrels inside, makes his way to a seat on the same row as Leo, some four chairs to the right. Leo watches as the person walks down the aisle, immediately recognizes who it is from the overly gelled hair and the outlines of a school jersey underneath his uniform shirt, is in the same year as him; Cristiano Ronaldo, captain of the basketball team and their resident star player, racks up an average of 20 points per game in a season, and half its worth in rebounds and assists.  
  
Villas Boas seems to be as surprised as Leo is, from the way his eyes widen. "Cristiano. I never thought you to have a penchant for trouble."  
  
"Thursdays are my designated trouble days, Mr. VB," Cristiano answers, grin full of the kind of cheek that Leo's seen most teachers fall for far too often, far too easily. "That's why you haven’t seen me here before."  
  
"Ah," Villas Boas replies gently, grins back as if it can't be helped. "I'm going to pretend your detentions have been for noble reasons, I'm sure."  
  
"Absolutely," Cristiano raises his right hand up to the side, as if in a vow, and Villas Boas laughs like it's an inside joke. Leo sees his eyes flit to the wall clock behind them again, and Cristiano seems to notice it too from the way he says, "Somewhere you have to be, sir?"  
  
"No," Villas Boas is quick to answer, but it's so obviously a lie that maybe he catches himself on it too, "Actually, yes I do. Would you mind looking over for the rest of the time, Cristiano? It's urgent."  
  
Leo's eyebrows tick in surprise. He's had Villas Boas for English last year, had always seemed to be the prime teacher, responsible and helpful to students who needed it. Ditching his duties, even if it was only detention monitoring, seems a bit out of his character. Cristiano looks to be all of unmoved, though, almost as if he's used to Villas Boas making requests of him like this by now. "No problem, Mr. VB. You go ahead."  
  
"Thank you," Villas Boas sighs, visibly relieved, and he packs up in a hurry before stopping at the door to say, "Not a word to the principal, alright?"  
  
"Got it, sir," Cristiano calls out dutifully, and then Villas Boas is closing the door behind him, leaving Leo alone with the fucking captain of the high school basketball team.  
  
It's not that he doesn’t like Cristiano. He hasn't spoken more than four words to him since freshman year Gym, truthfully, hasn't even had a class with him besides that. They run in different circles, belong in completely opposite sides of the social spectrum; Cristiano with the popularity being ridiculously attractive and a sports team captain brings, and Leo on the other end, all by himself. He's been so used to being irrelevant for the past years of his life that talking to someone like Cristiano is unwanted, feels as if he's betraying some type of principle for being the school nobody. He knows he shouldn't put stock into any of the hierarchical bullshit it all turns out being, but if Leo's ever been good at anything, it's knowing where his place is and staying right where that is.  
  
It's thankfully silent for a few minutes, until, "You seem new."  
  
Leo has to check if Cristiano's actually talking to him or to his phone, but when he glances over, Cristiano's staring at him unabashed. "I've been here since first year."  
  
"I know who you are," Cristiano rolls his eyes, waves a hand dismissively, and it's a surprise to Leo. "I meant you seem new to detention."  
  
Leo blinks at him unbelievingly before he catches himself, says, "Yeah," because he doesn't know what else to.  
  
"Never pegged you to be capable of breaking a rule," Cristiano says, amused, and something in his look feels as if he's appraising Leo, makes the hair on the back of Leo's neck rise for some goddamned reason. "I'm impressed."  
  
"That's nice," and it's lame, Leo knows, but he can't keep on looking at Cristiano anymore, feels rattled by something about him, isn't sure what it is. He fixes his eyes back to the Chemistry sheet in front of him, tries to memorize the numbers on the page, doesn't even know what they're supposed to be. He reads the title of the page, in bold, underlined, capital letters. Angles of structural bonds, right.  
  
He hears the scrape of a chair, some footsteps, and then Cristiano's sidling up beside him, pulling out the seat to his immediate right and sits on it, lets his bag drop underneath the desk. Leo tries to focus, _109.5 degrees, tetrahedral, 120 degrees, bent—_  
  
"Ancelotti for Chem?" Cristiano asks, and he's suddenly too close, feels his breath trickling down the sides of Leo’s neck.  
  
"Guardiola," Leo answers, but it's meek even to his own ears, throat dry and mind whirring about something else besides their conversation. Like how warm Cristiano's leg is against his, how Cristiano's tie is coming undone at the knot, how his earring isn't the jewel he thought it to be, but just a simple round stud.  
  
"Sucks," Cristiano says, and it's almost a whisper from how low he says it, too close to Leo for him not to hear any louder. "I would've wanted to find out if we had chemistry together." It's a shitty pick up line, is Leo's first thought, and then he's not thinking anymore, because Cristiano's kissing him, lips warm and wet against his, teeth nipping at the bottom flesh and tongue lashing out, licking his lips into compliance, getting them to open for Cristiano to enter. Leo's kissed people before, even with his kind of status, but it's different when it's the basketball captain, when it’s with someone definitely more experienced than he is.  
  
"Why—" Leo breathes out when they break apart, sucks in a breath when Cristiano sucks on his collarbone, licks a trail up to his pulse and bites down hard. "Why are you doing this?"  
  
"Because I want to," Cristiano murmurs against his skin, moves up to kiss Leo's jaw, his chin, gets Leo closing his eyes in pleasure, disbelief, when Cristiano moves a hand down in between his legs, palms at the tent already forming in his pants, "And so do you."  
  
"I don't," Leo says, but his voice hitches at the end, is rendered breathless when Cristiano digs the heel of his hand down against his cock. " _Fuck_ , Cristiano—"  
  
"So you know my name," Cristiano laughs, but it's more wanting than amused, low and gruff and hot like Leo's never heard before.  
  
"You're—you're basketball captain," Leo says, as if it's an answer, but Cristiano seems to understand anyways, laughs in that same way again, fucks up Leo's resistance to this even more. "It's hard not—hard not to."  
  
"You think about that when you fuck yourself to me, then?" Cristiano asks, and fuck him, Leo thinks, he thinks way too much of himself, but it's even worse that it's completely true. Leo's always preferred boys, had always jacked off to the thought of them more than he has to perky breasts and shapely hips, but he's never had a type until stepping into high school, never really cared for what kind of boy he liked until he suddenly did, wanted to be fucked in the locker rooms by the basketball captain, face pressed against the sting of the cold metal doors, back arching and moulding to the flit of someone's fingers down his spine. It's always been a lucid dream to Leo anyways, was never going to happen to someone like him in a place as isolating as the Bernabeú. It never stopped him from thinking about it, of course; how big Cristiano's hand would look splayed against his stomach, his cock, how Leo'd run his fingers down the dips on Cristiano's abdomen, feel every muscle and sinew jump at his touch, how he'd very much like to take Cristiano in his mouth, fuck him around his lips until he's coming in gushes down Leo's throat.  
  
But Cristiano doesn't need to be privy to any of that. "No," Leo lies, doesn't sound convincing in the slightest. "I don't think about you at all."  
  
"Shame," Cristiano mutters, and then Leo's moaning, clinging onto Cristiano's arms because Cristiano's unzipped his pants, has Leo's cock in his hand, tight and commandeering when he pumps him. "Because I think of you all the time."  
  
Maybe that’s what does it for Leo. He doesn’t even know if Cristiano’s being serious, doesn’t know if he’s only bluffing to get Leo to relent, but it doesn’t matter anyways because Leo’s giving in, is letting Cristiano take from him out of his own volition. His strokes are slow, measured, nearly not enough for Leo, but it’s better than anything Leo had conjured in his own time, is real whereas the Cristiano in his head had always been just mere fantasy.  
  
“Villas Boas,” Leo gasps, for lack of any other protest. It’s the last he has in his arsenal, doesn't think he can hold off Cristiano with his own resistance any longer. “He can—he might come back.”  
  
“He won’t,” Cristiano says, pulls on Leo with a rough tug, then let’s go of his grip completely, gets Leo whining in protest, as embarrassing as that is. “Locker room then, come on.”  
  
It’s in a daze that Leo follows Cristiano down the hallways, past the doors of the gym, into the shower stalls at the end of the row of white lockers. It’s not the focal point of his fantasies, Leo thinks, getting fingered underneath the spray of the water, Cristiano’s teeth carving marks into the bone of his shoulder. But it’s as good as, is fucking _better_ , and Leo comes into Cristiano’s hand when he prods at him with two fingers, white streaks in the water when it drains from the tiles. Leo’s far too out of it to return the favour, only watches as Cristiano finishes himself off, quick and tight in his own hand until he’s coming with a grunt against Leo’s skin, a noise that sounds identical to Leo’s name that it surprises him enough to sober up and stare at Cristiano as he pushes his hair out of his eyes, weighed heavy by the steady drip of water.  
  
“Don’t look like that,” is all Cristiano says when he notices, smirks, turns the knob of the shower off and steps out of the stall. There’s a decent amount of time where Leo thinks Cristiano’s left him alone, wet and naked and clothes displayed outside in a conciliatory banner, some sort of trophy for fucking the school loser as a joke, will surely be found out by the entire basketball team when they eventually come in for their 4 o’clock practice. But then Cristiano comes back inside, throws a towel at Leo’s chest that he catches clumsily, is already clad in a towel himself. “C’mon, dry up. Team’s coming in five minutes.”  
  
Leo doesn’t think he’s done anything as fast as he does that, hastily rubs himself down before searching for his uniform, finds it thrown near the whiteboard benches. He gets dressed in silence, pointedly ignores Cristiano on the other side of the room, and then practically bolts out of the door, meets a small group of basketball team members around the corner of the gym hallway and breathes out in relief when they pass by him without a glance.  
  
The detention room is untouched when he gets back, no sign of Villas Boas returning or anyone else warming the room for them while they were out. Leo shoves his things haphazardly into his bag, hears the crumple of his Chem worksheet and doesn't care. He’ll get a new photocopy, whatever, but he needs to get out before Cristiano gets there, knows he’ll be coming back for his own stuff too. It’s only a one-off, Leo knows, was probably just a way for Cristiano to pass time until he had to go to basketball practice, and Leo was right there, willing to play along. It’s a good thing too, because Leo won’t be that reckless again, tells himself adamantly that it won't happen, that he doesn't _want_ it to happen again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Except it does. It happens again, and again, and again, until Leo’s unsure whether or not it’s actually happening or if he’s just imagining it all, feels like an elongated dream in the middle of Bio class, asleep to the bark of Mourinho’s voice, has no end to it because he doesn’t seem to be waking up. He manages to avoid Cristiano for a week after the first time before he’s suddenly there, leaning beside his locker like he owns it, like he’s belonged there his whole life, has him bending low to whisper in Leo’s ear, “Locker room at 3,” and then he’s gone, has already caught up to his friends at the end of the hallway, all of them none the wiser to whatever the hell Cristiano wants from Leo.  
  
Leo doesn’t plan on going, but he has extra credit to do for Algebra with Heynckes anyways, isn’t due until half past three. He’s only passing time, is what he tells himself when he goes to sit down on the worn benches of the locker room, rickety from overuse, is what he tells Cristiano when he enters and finds him there, a knowing smile curling at his lip, as if Leo’s reason is all bullshit rationalization for what they’re about to do and _knows_ it.  
  
“Then I better be quick, right?” Cristiano says as he rubs Leo over the fabric of his pants, voice a teasing lilt, as if he’s mocking him, and it gets Leo seeing red before he’s blinded by white, the coil of Cristiano’s tongue around the head of his cock forcing his eyelids to shut and his mouth to open in a low whimper of, “ _Cristiano_.”  
  
“Hmm?” Cristiano hums against him, and then he’s got Leo whole in his mouth, hot and encompassing around the shaft, his tongue flat along the underside of his cock. Leo’s never had much experience with blowjobs, has never had anything more than his own hand and then Cristiano’s, in general, but he doesn’t need to be well-versed in the Kama Sutra to know what feels good and what doesn’t. Cristiano’s mouth, he knows, sucking him as relentlessly as he does now, with the kind of fervour Leo’s only seen in him during the clutch moments of a basketball game, feels fucking _fantastic_.  
  
He comes after a few minutes, all in Cristiano’s mouth, but he doesn’t seem to mind. There’s something in the way Cristiano laps him up—thorough, precise, as if he’s _enjoying_ it—that brings some sort of clarity in Leo’s head, gets him to release the grasp he has on Cristiano’s hair, didn’t even realize how tightly he was pulling until he’s letting go and seeing the crescents dug into his palm by his nails. Cristiano pulls off of him and regards him with a curious look, makes the knot in Leo’s stomach worsen when he stands to full height and wipes a stray trail of come down the side of his lip with a thumb, brings it into his mouth and sucks it off.  
  
“You good?” Cristiano questions, an eyebrow raised, and Leo hates him so much, hates how he’s acting like this happens everyday, like the school’s star basketball player gives head in the locker rooms all the time, and to someone who shouldn’t be anybody to him, someone who he shouldn’t be paying any attention to at all.  
  
“I—” Leo stutters out, can’t meet Cristiano’s eyes even if his stare feels like a burn. Cristiano’s standing over him, too close for comfort, always too close, so Leo pushes him away, fixes his pants back up and smooths down his tie, “I have to go,” leaves before Cristiano can say anything back and gets to Heynckes' room five minutes before he does.  
  
He’s distracted the whole time, messes up on something so simple as collecting like terms, feels Heynckes’ disappointment even if he doesn’t do anything but correct the mistakes he makes, knows he’s only wasting both of their time. Heynckes offers to dismiss him early, but Leo refuses when he checks the clock, realizes that it’ll directly overlap with the start of basketball practice. He doesn’t want to risk crossing paths with Cristiano again, so he asks for fifteen more minutes, tries hard to focus on his work. He gets six out of ten questions wrong anyways.  
  
The third time, Leo approaches him. He watches basketball practice a week after meeting him in the locker room, brings his Bio textbook along to look down at when Cristiano rakes his eyes along the bleachers. Leo knows he’s seen him, notices it from the way Cristiano goes alert after looking somewhere his way, dunks balls as if he was showing off for an Ivy league scout. Maybe it was a little preemptive to think any of it was for him, but they catch eyes once and Leo swears he sees Cristiano smirk and wink.  
  
Leo waits until he’s sure every last team member’s left the gym before he makes his way down from the top bleacher, walks inside the locker room and sees Cristiano puttering around in his locker, shirt off and sweatpants hanging low on his hips. Leo leans beside his locker this time, out of place no matter how many times he’s been here, no matter what he’s done in it, doesn’t have that easy confidence Cristiano had sliding up against his locker a week ago. He traps his hands behind him as a precaution, knows if he doesn’t he’ll probably do something as stupid as to reach out for Cristiano.  
  
He opens his mouth, doesn’t actually know what he’s going to say; it’s a spur of the moment decision, coming here, already kind of regrets it, but Cristiano closes his locker door, turns to give him his complete, undivided attention, and then Leo’s blurting out a, “Sorry,” doesn’t even know what for, doesn’t know if it’s enough.  
  
“You’re here now,” Cristiano shrugs, is all he says back, and then he’s encasing Leo between his arms and the locker, gets his shoulder blades digging into the hard metal when he kisses him. All the questions he’s supposed to ask comes to Leo then, of all the opportune moments, thinks of how he should ask Cristiano what they’re really doing while Cristiano’s unbuttoning his shirt, thinks of how he wants to know what Cristiano’s really doing with _him_ when Cristiano kisses at a spot behind his ear, trails a tongue out and licks a stripe up the cartilage to ask, “Are you gonna stop running?”  
  
And Leo thinks it’s high time he does, doesn’t even know what this is, doesn’t know what exactly he’s been running from—he doesn't know much of anything about what they're doing, in all ways that it can mean, but he decides it doesn’t really matter anymore, doesn't really care. “Yeah,” he breathes out, kisses the words onto the crook of Cristiano’s neck. “Okay.”  
  
Cristiano’s surprisingly gentle when he sinks into him the first time, waits until he’s stretched Leo enough before sliding in, cock slick and hot from lubrication. Leo almost laughs at the thought, of how Cristiano had prepared for this, lube ready in his locker for the occasion, maybe had always just been there for conquests before him. Cristiano sees him suppress a smile, probably, is brutally hard in his next thrust, and laughing becomes the farthest thing from Leo’s mind, is the farthest sound that comes scratching out of his throat when Cristiano palms at his dick in the same rhythm as his fucking.  
  
He doesn’t get fucked from the back, isn’t a scene-by-scene reenactment of the recurring pipe dreams he’s had before. Leo isn't bothered; he finds that he likes seeing Cristiano bite his lip when he’s close to losing control, likes the way the syllables of his name form on his mouth when he comes undone right inside him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They create some sort of routine after that. Cristiano fucks him quickly during the interval between dismissal and basketball practice, usually doesn’t get to ready Leo extensively with the time limit they have. It hurts like a bitch when the time crunch is especially short, but it more than makes up for it when Cristiano doesn’t have practice and lets Leo suck him off in the locker room showers, tiles cool on his knees but water warm against his back, gets to tease Cristiano with his mouth like he has all the time in the world. And they do, on days like that, have nothing but time and an empty locker room, allows for Cristiano to fuck him languidly against the shower walls, pays back Leo’s goading with a slow torture of his own.  
  
It’s not a relationship beyond the physical aspects of it; they barely talk, most of their conversations mumbled and low, saved for the purpose of sex alone. It’s only logical that they keep it quiet. It went unsaid for a few weeks before Leo vocalized it, had requested that they pretend like they didn’t know each other outside of the locker room, act like the strangers they still probably should be. It’s not as if it hadn’t already been happening, but Leo just wanted the confirmation then, wanted something to cement the fact that this was all it would ever be, fucking behind closed doors so the school wouldn’t know of what they were, how the basketball captain uses some school nobody to relieve his stress, how Leo uses Cristiano because he has nothing better to do with his time.  
  
“If that’s what you want,” Cristiano had replied when he asked, as if it was a service martyrdom Cristiano would go through for him, but Leo saw the way his shoulders sagged in relief, how he lost some of the tension he always carried around the lines of his mouth. It should’ve relieved Leo the same way too, is what he wanted by asking him in the first place, but all Leo found himself feeling then was a dull emptiness forming in the pit of his gut, a small pang of disappointment that had no place taking residence within him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“I can’t come today,” Cristiano tells him at his locker a few minutes before fourth period, catches him at a time when nobody’s around his hallway. Leo doesn’t miss the chances, knows it’s not coincidence at all. “I have to ace that Bio test tomorrow or I’m fucked on team probation."  
  
“That sucks,” Leo comments, knows Cristiano breathes basketball like it’s what sustains his life. “Want me to help you study?” and then he freezes, stops the transport of his books to the top shelf of his locker. He looks at Cristiano cautiously, isn’t sure if he’d just crossed some kind of boundary by offering something outside the safety of the locker room, isn’t really sure why he even said it at all. Bio’s his best subject, has always been his favourite class, but even then he’s never been significantly better at it than he is in his other classes, still maintains an average mark no matter how much he likes the course.  
  
If the proposal catches Cristiano off guard, he doesn’t show any indication to it besides the slight raise of his eyebrows, the subdued question in his eyes. All he says is, “Alright,” surprises Leo with his agreement, gets Cristiano grinning at his reaction, “Come to the library after school, we’ll study there.”  
  
“O–okay,” Leo responds when he regains the ability to, but Cristiano’s already walked off, timed perfectly to the arrival of people down his hallway.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Studying turns out fruitless, academics wise, because Cristiano has Leo pinned against a desolated corner after perusing a chapter, has his hand burrowed down his pants before Leo can even protest against the fact.  
  
“You still have—” Leo sucks in a breath when Cristiano’s knuckles brush down his groin, grips onto the lapels of Cristiano’s blazer just for something to hold onto, something to do with his own hands. “You have five chapters to finish before tomorrow.”  
  
Like some kind of divine irony, Cristiano’s unit test is about the reproductive system. Leo tries not to let it bother him, doesn’t try to read into the circumstance. There’s a picture of a uterus on every page, right on the left-hand corner of each flap, as if the book was taunting him for participating in biological and biblical sin. Cristiano doesn’t bat an eyelash to it, even looks a bit amused at Leo’s obvious discomfort. If he didn’t know any better, Leo’d think Cristiano set this whole thing up just so he can get the excuse of rubbing Leo down in someplace different from the usual scenery of the school gym lockers, uses the topic of the reproductive organs as a gateway to getting what he wants, like the huge dork Leo’s found Cristiano has the tendency of being on occasion. Leo likes it anyways, likes knowing about the layers to Cristiano's personality that he wouldn't normally see during a basketball game, wouldn't normally see when they fuck.  
  
“There're better ways to teach me about the reproductive anatomy,” Cristiano ghosts over his collarbone, a fixation Leo’s noticed Cristiano develop the past few weeks of this, whatever it is. “More effective methods.”  
  
“Like?” Leo quips back, because Cristiano has a habit of always getting the last word in, and Leo wants it to stop, wants an even ground.  
  
“Like fucking you on that table, or sucking you off underneath it,” Cristiano counters, and Leo would be lying if he said those didn’t sound like promising prospects. “We got endless choices.”  
  
And Leo would concur, almost lets Cristiano enact all the choices he’s mentioned, but he hears a scuffle behind a far shelf, gets Cristiano pulling his hand out of Leo’s slacks, both of them hanging in suspended tension. There's a moment where the noise gets louder, as if coming that much closer, but then there's footsteps moving away from them, the sound tapering off with each click of a heel.  
  
Leo closes his eyes, hears the blood pulsing in his ears. “Can you learn somewhere else besides a public library?”  
  
Cristiano breathes out a laugh, visibly relieved to dodge that bullet too, “Yeah, my mom’s gone out for her night shift.”  
  
Leo shoots his eyes wide open, knows the tacit implication of Cristiano saying that. “That’s not—that’s not what I meant.”  
  
“I know,” Cristiano smiles, full of reassurance he shouldn’t be giving, promises that he shouldn’t be making. Leo lets him twine their fingers together anyways, follows along when Cristiano tugs him off the wall and says, “C’mon, I’ll drive us there.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Cristiano’s house isn’t what Leo had imagined it, isn’t the grandeur expansiveness that matches Cristiano’s personality. It’s quaint, simple in its organization and furniture scheme, but it’s also homey in a way Cristiano’s never shown himself to be before.  
  
“Your house is really clean,” Leo says, when he’s sat down on Cristiano’s bed, not really sure of what to do. Cristiano’s room, by contrast, is exactly like how he’d be personified; motivational posters covering his walls instead of pictures of basketball stars, basketball hoop screwed onto the back of his door, at least four mirrors in Leo’s peripheral vision. Being in it, Leo feels as if he’s been here plenty of times before when he hasn’t, is such a reflection of the Cristiano he knows that Leo doesn’t need to orient himself to it any further than he already is.  
  
“I’m not messy,” Cristiano rolls his eyes, sits down heavily on a swivel chair at his desk. “Besides, it’s just me and my mom here anyways. There’s really not much mess to make.”  
  
Leo’s seen the framed pictures littered around the living room on his way up to Cristiano’s room, would be blind not to notice the lack of a male figure in them besides Cristiano himself. He’s curious, of course, wants to know where his dad is, didn’t even know he was ever gone, but Leo doesn’t say anything, figures if Cristiano wants him to know, he’d have told him already. Learning about Cristiano’s personal life isn’t the purpose of him coming here anyways, so Leo looks away from Cristiano’s challenging expression, chooses to just leave the issue be.  
  
“You really should study,” Leo suggests instead, glances at the digital clock on Cristiano’s desk to see that it’s already 5 o’clock. Leo has to be home by dark, so that gives him at least two hours, knows it’s probably not enough time to cover the unit with enough detail to ensure a 90% on the test. Leo tries anyways, pulls out his Bio book from his bag, flips to the folded page at the beginning of the reproductive unit, sets it down on the table surface behind where Cristiano’s facing. “You should probably start with memorizing the parts first, Mourinho likes to give diagrams on the test,” Leo starts, thumbs to a page where both genders’ systems were fully outlined, names of parts and its functions in a dainty chart right beside the pictures. “And then you have to know how they work. He’ll probably put at least two major organs in the short answers part, but he’s gonna have some trick questions too, you know how he is, so look over the slides he gave you in your hard drive, there’s usually some other notes there that he doesn’t usually get from the—”  
  
He’s cut off by Cristiano reaching up to cover his mouth, muffling the next words he says by the block of his hand. “I think this is the first time I’ve heard you speak more than two sentences to me.”  
  
Leo stops, blushes in embarrassment, doesn’t exactly know what he’s ashamed of. He speaks only when Cristiano has peeled off his hand, “I like Bio.”  
  
“Nerd,” Cristiano says, but he says it with a grin, no hint of malice in his voice, and Leo tries to cuff him lightly at the back of his head, gets his wrist caught around the length of Cristiano’s fingers. “Thanks.”  
  
Leo blinks at Cristiano, is the first time he’s ever heard him say that to him. “I told you I'd help you study.”  
  
“Not that,” Cristiano shakes his head, swats his hand like it was the completely wrong thing to say. “I mean, yeah, that too, but—I don’t know. I guess I mean thanks for not asking about my dad.”  
  
And Leo knows from how he says it that it’s another thing Cristiano tries to hide besides them, that talking about his dad isn’t any easier without him there. “It’s none of my business.”  
  
Cristiano just looks at him for a long moment, guarded, unreadable, but there’s an expression that Cristiano lets slip and Leo doesn’t recognize, is there for a moment before it’s gone, replaced by Cristiano’s usual smirk as he nods, says, “Yeah,” stands up and brackets his hands against Leo’s hips to pull him closer, bends his neck down to peer at Leo’s face. “Thanks for not trying to make it yours.”  
  
Leo doesn’t really know how to respond to that, but he’s thankfully exempt from having to by the press of Cristiano’s lips against his, feels a wordless _thanks_ with every soft kiss Cristiano drives down his cheek, his jaw, his neck. Leo tries to answer as best as he can, skims a hand gently against the skin underneath Cristiano’s shirt, thrums out a silent _anytime_ when he gets down to the floor and takes Cristiano in his mouth.  
  
It’s slow, tentative, unhurried like how they normally aren’t, but Cristiano’s hand is a warm comfort on the nape of Leo’s neck, tells Leo that he’s fine just the way this is going. It’s easy to forget how effortlessly tender Cristiano can be sometimes, with the restrictions they have on whatever they’re doing, on time, on privacy, but Leo’s reminded with every brush of Cristiano’s thumb down the hair on the back of his neck, every flutter of his fingers across the stretch of skin along his collarbone, makes something warm coil down in the recesses of Leo’s stomach. It’s something Leo doesn’t know how to name, doesn’t want to name, is scared that if he does, it’ll mean something other than what this thing with Cristiano is supposed to be, will mean feelings when feelings are a luxury they can’t afford with what they have.  
  
Cristiano sheds all of their clothes off after Leo brings him off in his mouth, pushes Leo down his bed and hovers over him, forearms supporting him up on either side of Leo’s head. There’s a second where Cristiano looks down at him, just a quick flash, but Leo sees that something in his eyes, that same wretched feeling roiling in his gut, and Leo decides he doesn’t want to see anymore.  
  
“Can you—” Leo huffs out in a breath, looks at somewhere, anywhere but Cristiano’s eyes, “Can you fuck me from the back?”  
  
Cristiano’s voice is rough, gravelly when he answers, “Anything you want,” and Leo doesn’t even know what he wants anymore, doesn’t know if this is still what he signed up for, doesn’t know if he’s getting more out of it or less. He grips on tightly to Cristiano’s bedsheets, muffles his moans into his pillow when Cristiano fucks a finger into him, one, two, three, slick and probing and terribly good. He imagines what Cristiano’s face looks like now, when he slides his cock past his entrance, eyes closed and mouth open in some guttural sound Leo loves, but the whole time Leo imagines that same emotion he’s trying to forget, imagines it marred along the lines of Cristiano’s forehead, sketched into the indentations on his flesh. Cristiano takes him in his hand, beats down taut and quick, and then Leo’s coming embarrassingly fast, spills out noises generously from his mouth, Cristiano’s name in a repetition like a psalm, a mantra, a desperate call for something too far out of his grasp.  
  
When Cristiano comes inside him, it’s with kisses down the curve of his back, tongue soothing the scrape of his teeth on the peaks of Leo’s shoulder blades. Leo wishes Cristiano would be hard, wishes he be rugged instead of this, soft and gentle, as if he actually cares. He pulls away quickly when he’s sure Cristiano’s done, ignores the question in Cristiano’s stance, is always there surrounding Cristiano but Leo doesn’t know the answer.  
  
The sun is starting to set outside Cristiano’s window. “I have to get home before dark.”  
  
“Alright,” Cristiano, for what he’s worth, doesn’t ask it aloud. “I’ll drive you home.”  
  
The drive to his house is silent. When Cristiano parks down his driveway, Leo tries for something to say, opens his mouth and reaches out a hand, retreats it back halfway. It hangs lamely in front of him when he says, “Thanks,” so he sets it back down his lap, “Good night.”  
  
“‘Night,” Cristiano greets back, looks at Leo like he has thousands of things he wants to say besides an awkward pleasantry. He settles with, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” waves his hand when Leo’s stepped out of the car, and then Cristiano’s already pulling out into his street. Leo walks into his house all the while thinking that he shouldn’t, knows he should stop this thing with Cristiano before it’s too late, knows, at the very back of his mind, that he’ll keep on coming back to him anyways.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Cristiano doesn’t ace his test, but he doesn’t fail it either. He gets a 68, and Mourinho haggles with him, cuts his basketball practice down to two days a week instead of four, until Cristiano’s at least reached a 75 average in Bio. Leo doesn’t mind; less practice means Cristiano gets to take him to his house more often, lends them more time for what they do, and Leo knows when he tugs at Cristiano’s bottom lip with his teeth, elicits a groan when he skates his hands down the dips of Cristiano’s hipbones, Cristiano doesn’t really mind it much either.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It’s only a matter of time before the dream starts crumbling.  
  
The new semester rolls in and Leo finishes his first semester courses with his usual 70s, is just glad he’s gotten the hard subjects finally over with. It’ll be easy cruising this semester, he thinks, English really the only class he’ll have some trouble with, so he loosens up a bit, finally feels as if there’s an upturn in his life from the static pulse it had before this, before Cristiano.  
  
But then Cristiano walks inside the English classroom, flanked by his friends on either side of him, laughing about something Leo doesn’t quite hear. He stares unwittingly until Cristiano probably senses it, casts his eyes over to the back of the classroom, where Leo’s sitting. Cristiano’s eyes go wide a bit, holds the alarm Leo feels coursing through his veins, but then he looks away, looks normal, has to keep up the charade because Pepe’s seen his pause and is asking him about it.  
  
“You alright, man?” Leo hears from all the way at the back. If Cristiano’s group was notorious for anything, it’d be the fact that they were always so fucking _loud_. “Ah, shit, Ferguson’s coming, come on—”  
  
They scramble for the last group of vacant desks, which, coincidentally, were the ones around Leo. Leo tries hard to look forward as they come closer, fixates his gaze on the chalkboard at the front of the class. Cristiano’s the last to pick a seat, and he gets the one right beside Leo, doesn’t have a choice, sits down hesitantly with a quick glance towards him that Leo doesn’t acknowledge.  
  
“Welcome to third period English,” Ferguson drones on at the front when he enters, as if he’d rather watch the football team he coaches punt endless long balls down the field than have to teach another English class in his life. Leo’s heard he’s planning to retire this year, is probably due for it anyways. “Get into partners, your first assignment starts now.”  
  
He sees from the corner of his eye how Cristiano cranes his neck to look at Pepe, who nods right back. From behind him, he hears Fabio let out an offended grunt, sees him slam a hand down Pepe’s desk beside him, “Are you guys snakes, or what? Let me join.”  
  
“Too bad,” Pepe says gleefully, hits his fist down hard on the back of Fabio’s hand, makes him yelp out in pain. “Ferguson said partners.”  
  
“Then who am I gonna be with?” Fabio whines petulantly, rubs his own hand consolingly.  
  
“How about that guy in front of you?” Pepe asks, and Leo feels his body seize up.  
  
“Fuck no,” Fabio hisses, as if Leo can’t hear. Leo pretends not to, anyways, tries to immerse himself in the worksheet Ferguson had passed out, finds his hand is unsteady when he moves to write his name on it. “I’ve had him in some other class. He doesn’t even talk, man, he’s so fucking weird.”  
  
“Oh yeah, I remember him,” Pepe whispers back, just as quietly as Fabio did, which is not at all. “He mute, or some shit?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Fabio says. “But I swear to God if you leave me with him—”  
  
“You’re such a whiny little bitch,” Cristiano speaks up, surprises Leo with the vehemence he says it with, as if he was actually irritated at what Fabio’s said instead of the familiar exasperation people reserved for friends. “Just shut up and join us.”  
  
“You always come through, man, thanks,” Fabio sighs, doesn’t notice the tick in Cristiano’s jaw, the tight grip on his paper whitening his knuckles. Leo sees it though, doesn’t know what it means, but he purposefully angles his sheet so Cristiano can see his answers, knows he reads the _thanks_ he scribbles down on the line for question 13 when he catches the small upturn of Cristiano’s lips that he tries to hide with a bow of his head.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“I need help in English,” Cristiano tells him, stationed lazily against the door of Leo’s locker. Cristiano, Leo’s come to realize, has a habit of invading the places Leo’s always considered his. “Hey.” It doesn’t bother him.  
  
Leo knows Cristiano isn’t really here for English; unlike in Bio, Cristiano’s the star student, has Ferguson wrapped around his finger with his effortless charm. Leo would hate him for the advantage, if he wasn’t so charmed himself.  
  
“You could come to my house,” Leo shrugs nonchalantly, knows there’s something else in his subtext too, knows there’s no coming back for him with a huge step like this.  
  
But then Cristiano grins at him, all teeth, eyes crinkling, says, “Alright,” and Leo thinks he doesn’t want to come back anyways, doesn’t want to return to something that’s not this, not now, not somewhere Cristiano’s smiling at him the way he did just then.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“You said you like football, right?” Cristiano brings up casually, fiddles with the zipper of Leo’s pencil case, slides the end of his pen, cap-side up, along the length of Leo’s neck. Leo’s surprised he remembers it, was just an offhand remark he made back when Cristiano used to tease him for coming to his every basketball game when they both knew the real reason for it, _Football’s more my style_.  
  
“Yeah,” Leo replies, shivers when Cristiano toys the pen around his pulse, circles the skin lightly with the tip before replacing it with the touch of his lips. “It’s my sport.”  
  
“So you play?” Cristiano mumbles the words onto the skin of Leo’s neck, flicks his tongue out against flesh with the enunciation of the _L_.  
  
Leo closes his eyes, savours the sensitization Cristiano’s mouth can bring. “A bit, yeah.”  
  
“Probably not as good as me, I know,” Cristiano says, utterly serious, and Leo just laughs. He’d always believed in the reputation that Cristiano was arrogant, had always thought he was one of those people who were all talk but no game, but Leo knows now after all of this that it’s not a fault, is just the kind of confidence that comes with striving to be the best, and getting there through his own merit.  
  
“I don’t know,” Leo says, is joking in his tone, “I think my left foot’s better than your right layup.”  
  
“Cocky,” Cristiano whistles, detaches from his latch on Leo’s neck to give him an impressed look, something like pride colouring his eyes. “I like that.”  
  
Leo kisses him to shut him up, drags down on his lower lip when Cristiano pulls away with a breathy laugh. Cristiano’s not usually this talkative, isn’t usually the one who stops them from getting anywhere but a make out, so Leo knows something’s up when Cristiano looks down at him thoughtfully. “What?”  
  
“You should try out for the football team,” Cristiano tells him, raises a hand up to brush a thumb against Leo’s lip, probably red and swollen-kissed from Cristiano’s mouth, laughs when Leo looks up at him dubiously, “If you’re as good as you say you are, you’ll definitely get in.”  
  
“I was kidding,” Leo says, stunted by the pad of Cristiano’s thumb. “I don’t actually know if I’m that good.”  
  
“So?” Cristiano says, drops his hand and levels Leo’s eyes with his. “That’s why you try out, so you can find out if you are,” he stands up, stretches his hands over his head and walks over to his bag, dumped down on the end of Leo’s bed, “Besides, it’d be a good way to meet some people.”  
  
And Leo finally understands what Cristiano’s intentions are with all of this, feels that sting of disappointment like a slap to the face, like he’s been gutted out and left to dry in the sun. “You mean to find friends.”  
  
He sees Cristiano tense up, stops rifling through his duffel bag for an infinitesimal second before he eases up, but it’s enough of a hesitation for Leo to know he’s right. “That’s not what I said, come on—”  
  
“Why does it bother you that I have none?” Leo asks, feels anger bubbling up with his words, doesn’t know where it’s all suddenly coming from. “You didn’t care before.”  
  
“It doesn’t bother me,” Cristiano says, with blanket patience Leo knows he can easily cast off with one taunt, one jab, knows Cristiano’s volatile and Leo’s angry enough to spur him on. “I’m just saying, it’d be nice if you didn’t have to sit alone during lunch all the time and—”  
  
“Then why don’t _you_ sit with me?” Leo challenges, stands right up too, feels restless in his seat, his skin, “Why don’t _you_ be my friend?”  
  
“Don’t even fucking start,” Cristiano warns lowly, turns around sharply to face Leo, glare twisting his face into something unpleasant, “You’re the one who told me to pretend like we don’t know each other.”  
  
Leo laughs, but it’s humourless, is full of the bitterness Leo thought he’d masterfully hidden from himself, from Cristiano, from every goddamn person around him who looks at him as if he was someone to be condoled for having to be alone. “Don’t act like that’s not what you wanted. You were already doing it before I even asked you to.”  
  
“Does it matter?” Cristiano asks, scrubs a hand down his face, sighs as if _he_ was tired, as if this was _his_ suffering to burden. “You asked me because you understood why we couldn’t, I don’t know why you’re even bringing this—”  
  
“Because I’m used to this, alright?” Leo says, knows he’s yelling from the soreness in his throat, doesn’t really know how to stop. “I’m used to having no friends, I’m used to being alone, and I thought you understood that too, I thought that’s why this thing worked between us, I thought—” and Leo slumps, wrangles his gaze away from Cristiano’s, closes his eyes and breathes, “You’re right, whatever. It doesn’t matter.”  
  
“Leo—” Cristiano starts, but Leo stops listening, sees that same pity everyone else feels for him in Cristiano’s eyes.  
  
Leo turns around, doesn’t say anything else. The door to his room clicks quietly shut behind him, and it's like a shove to the shoulder, like falling off the bed, like being dunked in a basin of ice water. It’s like waking up. It’s the end of the dream.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He doesn’t go to the change rooms after school, doesn’t linger at his locker waiting for Cristiano to emerge out of the adjoining hallway, doesn’t expect him to be leaning back against the metal wall beside him like he’s grown so used to. It’s all fine, because Cristiano ignores him in English class too, passes by him in the cafeteria without a glance, and Leo tells himself he doesn’t care, tells himself he’s used to this, tells himself that this is how it’s always been and how things were always supposed to be.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Hey,” Leo feels himself being shaken awake, didn’t even realize he had fallen asleep until he’s face to face with someone, sees a smile so wide the whites of them almost damages his retinas. “Sorry to wake you up, but I kinda need a partner for this project."  
  
“What project?” Leo tries to say, is stifled by his yawn. “Sorry.”  
  
“It’s fine,” the guy says good-naturedly, gives him a thumbs up. Leo thinks he’s seen him around before, has probably had a few classes with him some years past, but he doesn’t remember ever hearing enough about him to know his name. “History, we have to present something about the Crusades.”  
  
“Oh,” Leo blinks, rubs the dew out of his eyes, then realizes, “Sorry, we?”  
  
“Yeah,” Leo sees the odd look the guy angles at him, thinks it’s perfectly warranted anyways. “You’re my partner, right? Unless you’d rather be alone, because that’s cool, but I kind of need help on this mark or I’m—”  
  
Leo thinks he talks too much for something so simple, but it’s kind of endearing in it’s own way, makes him feel less of the loneliness that he’s managed to admit to himself the past week. “Yeah, it’s fine. I’ll work with you.”  
  
“Great, man,” the guy says, shifts in his seat as if he’s actually excited, “Look, though, I’m not saying I won’t help out, because I will, but you gotta know I’m pretty much shit at any kind of Microsoft Office, so don’t expect me to make a nice PowerPoint because I’ll probably just end up making it look like ass—”  
  
“You won’t,” Leo laughs, “But I’ll make the PowerPoint just in case.”  
  
“Asshole,” the guy rebuts, but he’s grinning along anyways and Leo knows it’s all in good fun. “I’m Kun, by the way.”  
  
“Leo,” is his introduction, and Leo thinks back to what he’d told Cristiano, what he’d said to push him away, how he’s always been used to being alone, thinks of how the way he’s acting now doesn’t really match with what he had said.  
  
But it’s different now. He’s used to being alone but not lonely, had never really known the worst of loneliness until he’d had Cristiano and then didn’t. Maybe he needed to get used to something else, maybe he needed a little change, maybe he did need someone like Kun. Maybe, Leo thinks, being by himself could only last as long as it’s not protection anymore, lasts only until it becomes the hurt he’s been so afraid of feeling in the first place.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Kun’s friends are welcoming when he brings him along for lunch to finalize the details of their project. Leo talks to Pipita and Angel about football, shows their respect for Ronaldinho even though they support Madrid, smacks Kun upside the head when his decibel levels grow progressively louder, makes Leo laugh even if he doesn’t really know them, hasn’t really begun to. It’s a bit taxing, talking for so long, giving answers that were more than his usual six words, having to come up with something to say to keep the conversation going. But it’s also nice, the good kind of different, like getting his first football from his grandma when he was three years old; his dad had told him he’s always wanted him to play basketball instead, but Leo was always uninterested, so he had given up trying by the time he was joining the little leagues. He remembers how important football was to him back then, remembers how it made him happy, satisfied. Listening to Kun’s eagerness with him now, watching him brighten up at a story, Leo thinks it’s not that far off.  
  
He ends up settling his eyes somewhere at the back of the cafeteria when the three of them start recounting a story from freshman year between themselves, catches Cristiano staring at him from across the room. He’s not smiling, not conveying anything with his expression, and Leo doesn’t get it because this is what Cristiano said he wanted, is what he was trying to make him do with his request at his house.  
  
Cristiano breaks the contact first, gets up, throws his jacket on and steps out of the cafeteria to the call of his friends behind his back. Leo doesn’t move to follow, stays rooted to his chair, ducks his head when Cristiano passes their table. It doesn’t matter; Cristiano isn’t looking anyway.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They meet each other eventually. Leo goes to the bathroom during fourth, bides time before the bell rings for dismissal because he’s bored and because he can. Cristiano’s sitting down on the floor a few feet away from it, playing idly with his phone, an earbud in his ear while the other hangs dejectedly from its wire. Leo’s forgotten Cristiano had last spare; he wants to laugh at the luck he has, rotten and unfortunate, down to the very last pluck of coincidence that’s dictating his life.  
  
Cristiano looks up at the squeak of his shoes, but Leo keeps on walking, pretends like he doesn’t notice Cristiano’s staring as he moves right past him. Leo doesn’t even need to use the bathroom, only goes for something to do, so all he does is twist the faucet at the sink, lets the water trickle down weakly from the spout, splashes it down the sink base with a hand. Cristiano decides to enter then, and Leo switches the water off, turns around to face Cristiano fully, wants to get whatever he has to say over with so he can go back to class.  
  
“What?" Leo asks, pats his hands dry against his pants, avoids looking directly at Cristiano’s eyes, knows it’ll be his defeat.  
  
Cristiano just looks at him for awhile. “I saw you at lunch.”  
  
“I saw you too,” Leo replies, fidgets uncomfortably under Cristiano’s gaze, so he walks to the hand dryer at the wall, turns it on even if his hands are already mostly dry.  
  
The machine’s not loud enough to drown out Cristiano’s voice. “You hang out with Higuaín now?”  
  
Leo isn’t sure which one of Kun’s friends that is, but he goes along with it. “Yeah, I guess so.”  
  
“Right,” Cristiano says, shakes his head. “I guess that’s the thing you’re used to now.”  
  
Leo shuts his eyes, is just suddenly so tired of all this. “You’re the one who told me to make friends.”  
  
“Yeah, but not with anyone I know,” Cristiano’s voice is hushed, as if he’s scared of being found out, but Leo’s done with that. “Look, Pipita’s in the basketball team, if you slip up once he’s got me fucking choked, so don’t—”  
  
“Don’t what?” he asks, because he’s strung up, is tired enough to let Cristiano rile him, “Don’t be friends with him? Don’t talk to him? Do you want me to stop talking to everyone he talks to as well?”  
  
“God, just—I’m not fighting you again, alright?” Cristiano breathes out, a whiff of air sliding through the cracks of his teeth, clamped down in frustration. “Just watch yourself around him.”  
  
“Is this what it’s really about?” Leo questions, knows from the way Cristiano’s eyes flicker to him minutely that he’s got him, “It’s not, isn’t it? You’re not scared he might find us out.”  
  
“It is,” Cristiano shoots back, too easy, too casual, too safe for Leo to believe him. “What else would it be about?”  
  
“What? Are you worried that you won’t get to fuck me around anymore then?” and Cristiano snaps his head up, is enough for Leo to figure out what all of this really means. “You think now that you saw me talking to someone that’s not you, I’ll be too busy for you to keep around for a quick fuck?”  
  
“Shut up,” Cristiano growls, and he’s suddenly backing Leo into a stall, pushes him up roughly against the wall of it, “It’s not, so shut _up_.”  
  
“Maybe I should suck his dick too, see if that works enough for him to actually be my—” Cristiano doesn’t let him finish his sentence, is already covering his mouth over his. His kiss is hard, bruising, is desperate for the control he’s lost by letting his emotions run like that when he’s never shown much of it before. Leo had gone from having Cristiano almost every day to not having him at all for a few weeks, but he hasn’t forgotten how his tongue feels, wrapped around his own, how the curve of his hands seem to fit perfectly into his sides, how he kneads at his stomach and already gets him fucking hard, thinks it’s twisted how this all turns him on, doesn’t really care.  
  
“ _Now_ you shut up,” Cristiano laughs, unbuttons Leo’s pants and curls his fingers around his cock, jerks Leo off as if they’re safe, as if they don’t have a chance of being caught, and Leo just wants him _faster_ , moans it out and only gets Cristiano slowing his hand down, almost to the point where he’s not even moving it at all.  
  
“Cris—” Leo keens, bucks his hips up for some friction, but Cristiano’s fingers go lax around his shaft. “Cristiano, come on—”  
  
“Will you stop talking to Pipita?” is what Leo makes out from the harsh whisper Cristiano blows in his ear, doesn’t even fully understand it, too caught up in trying to get back Cristiano’s touch, “Will you stop seeing his friends?”  
  
Cristiano brushes a finger over the head of his cock, presses on the slit at the tip, and Leo gets his hands pinned to the sides when he gets frustrated enough to try and touch himself, “Tell me why.”  
  
“You know why,” Cristiano noses into his hair, contorts Leo’s arms so his hands are behind him, discards the threat of Leo being the one to get himself off, “I told you.”  
  
“That’s not— _ah_ —that’s not a reason,” Leo struggles, but Cristiano’s brought his hand back over him, pumps him sluggishly, only halfway, but it’s better than nothing and it feels good enough for Leo to stop fighting, “Give me a real one.”  
  
“You really wanna know why?” Cristiano asks, pushes Leo back harder against the wall when he tries to arch further into Cristiano’s hand, “It’s because you’re _mine_.”  
  
The door outside creaks open before Leo can even react, and then Cristiano’s fucking him fast, tries to get him off as rapidly as he can, succeeds by the second round of strokes when Leo comes into his hand and bites down on his lip to stop the noise that wants to crawl out of his mouth. He makes the sound anyways, a low, aching groan, gets his lip cracked and bleeding in his attempt to hold it in.  
  
Whoever’s outside the stall stops whatever he’s doing, because everything goes quiet for awhile, a still, vacuum silence hanging over their heads. Leo zips his slacks up, waits for the swing of the main door before shoving Cristiano off him, runs out of the bathroom in his panic. He only stops when he’s turned into another hallway, bends over the water fountain and gulps in a heavy breath, one he’s needed since Cristiano cornered him in the bathroom, one he’s probably needed since weeks ago, when all of this—this mess, this sad excuse for a fucking comedy—had started.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
And then things get worse: Leo’s placed in a group with Cristiano and his friends in English, is given the type of assignment that requires a convening at someone’s house, at the library, somewhere they’re all going to be forced to spend more time with each other in close quarters outside of the classroom.  
  
Pepe and Fabio decide for everyone without a consensus, makes Cristiano’s house the headquarters and Saturday at noon the meeting. Leo wants nothing to do with it but has to, is his own subpar mark on the line, tries to think of how at least Cristiano’s house is familiar, isn’t really sure if it makes the situation better or worse. Cristiano, for his part, doesn’t say anything. Leo doesn’t fault him on it, knows no other scenario would be much of an improvement. It all goes downhill from here.  
  
Leo purposefully gets to his house half an hour late, doesn’t want to have to be stuck in a predicament where he’s facing Cristiano alone. So he gets dropped off by his dad at the park down the end of the road of Cristiano’s house, sits on the bench and waits, only starts walking when he’s seen Pepe parked in Cristiano’s driveway, Fabio locking the car doors when Pepe throws him the keys.  
  
They work until they don’t, until Pepe’s loafting and Fabio steps out to bum a smoke, leaves only Leo and Cristiano reading their assigned book. Leo hasn’t understood anything past the fourth page, and he knows from the lack of noise of a page turning that Cristiano’s not any more focused either.  
  
“Cris,” Pepe calls from his perch on Cristiano’s bed, laptop on his stomach, the sounds of a ball dribbling tinny through its speakers, “Leave that, watch the game. Miami’s kicking ass.”  
  
Leo sees Cristiano glance at him even with his head trained low, rereads a sentence thrice before he hears Cristiano say, “After I read.”  
  
Pepe looks at him incredulously, “Yeah, _no_ , our friend over there can finish that, you come here.”  
  
Leo doesn’t see him gesture at him, but it’s not much of a wild guess to think he’s talking about him. “It’s a group project.”  
  
That surprises everyone in the room, it seems, everyone including Leo. He doesn’t know where the ferocity comes from, is probably a stock up from all the frustration he’s had to hold in for weeks, months. Pepe narrows his eyes at him, stretches his legs off the bed and walks over to the table where the work is, where Leo’s facing Cristiano in his seat, “So you do talk.”  
  
“Yeah,” Leo answers tersely, words he’s wanted to say for so long coming out in a flood, Pepe just a casualty, “And I can hear too, so you and Fabio can stop talking about me so loudly in class.” Pepe guffaws at that, finds what he said hilarious for some reason. Leo doesn’t miss Cristiano’s warning look from across the table. He ignores it; it’s not his battle to fight, and he knows Cristiano would never really make it his.  
  
“Sounds about right,” Pepe says, right when his laughter dies out, “I heard you were good with your mouth.”  
  
Leo looks up, knows what Pepe’s implying with his sneer, feels his stomach gutter out, “What?”  
  
“You don’t know?” Pepe leers, and Leo has to fight hard not to look at Cristiano, has to stop himself from selling them both out. “Alvaro told me he heard you fagging around in the bathroom, caught you running right out of there when you thought no one was around,” Pepe’s grin is vicious when Leo looks away, looks for anything that will ease the churn in his gut, the closing in on his throat, “What did you do, pay the guy? Promise to do his homework ‘til grad? Some nerd shit like that? ‘Cus I know no one’d be willing to fuck some nobody like you without a catch.”  
  
Leo’s heart races painfully in his chest, feels anger he can’t express, can’t subdue, knows every single thing Pepe’s said is true anyways. He should say something back. He should try to defend himself. But shoulds are different from woulds, so he clamps his mouth shut, keeps his quiet.  
  
He’s used to this, used to being beaten around by fists, by words, by people that a bunch of sixteen year olds have deemed to be better than him, who’ve somehow received the right to put him down even lower because they needed to establish their own place in that godforsaken school, as if it all makes one speck of a difference the moment they step out of the doors that have kept them barricaded from what’s real out there and what isn’t inside. He should do something but he doesn’t, because this is his place, and he’s never once tried breaking out from it, won’t be starting now.  
  
But he doesn’t really need to, because Cristiano’s suddenly there to do him the favour, “Get out.”  
  
“The hell?” Pepe splutters, doesn’t expect for Cristiano to react like that, to react at all. He isn’t the only one. “What’s wrong with you?”  
  
“Do _I_ look fucking mute to you?” Cristiano demands, stands up and gets his face within a breadth of Pepe’s, “I said the get the fuck out of my house.”  
  
“Seriously? You’re defending him?” and Pepe laughs again, “Who the hell is he anyways?”  
  
“You’re a piece of shit,” Cristiano snarls, yanks the laptop off his bed and pushes it hard onto Pepe’s chest, forces him to take a few steps back. “Fuck off, take Fabio with you.”  
  
“What’s gotten into you?” Pepe asks, looks at Cristiano as if he’s suddenly become a stranger. He turns to cast a look between him and Leo, tries to understand, tries to pull out an explanation, and Leo sees the exact moment when he _knows_ , is obvious from the dreadful dawning that comes over his face. “No, you gotta be fucking with me—him? Cris, man—”  
  
“Yeah, _him_ ,” Cristiano says, no hesitation, no shame. “Him, Leo. His name’s Leo. Are you leaving yet?”  
  
Pepe just stares at Cristiano for a long minute. Cristiano doesn’t waver. There’s a constriction in Leo’s chest that only gets worse when Pepe puffs out a laugh, harsh and cruel in its breath, shakes his head like he’s disappointed. “So that's how it is.”  
  
There’s a crack to Cristiano’s ice when Pepe starts walking to the door that Leo sees, and it’s the first time Leo’s ever hurt for him, is the first time he’s ever thought that he wasn’t bearing this burden alone. Cristiano’s always been there, carrying it with him too, and Leo never really saw it, never really understood until now.  
  
The door closes behind Pepe’s back. Cristiano doesn’t say anything; he just runs a hand through his hair, closes his eyes, and Leo hears enough from just that.  
  
“Why did you do that?” Leo asks quietly. He doesn’t know if it’s the right time for it, but it’s out of his mouth and he can’t, won’t, take it back.  
  
“It’s not for you,” Leo wishes Cristiano would look at him. “If that’s what you think, it wasn’t for you.”  
  
And that’s where Leo ends it, where he draws the line, indulges that part of his mind that he’s been barring shut foolishly for so long that it’s built up, is screaming for him to say, _Enough_. “You’re so full of shit.”  
  
“Don’t—”  
  
“Stop doing that!” and Cristiano finally looks. “You tell me to look for friends and then don’t, and then you defend me from yours, and I don’t understand why, I don’t get it, I don’t know what—”  
  
“I had you first!” is Cristiano’s shout back, makes Leo stop, makes everything around him feel like it’s coming to a halt. “You’re mine, alright? I had you first. I don’t want Pipita or his friends having you, I don’t want Pepe or Fabio fucking with you because you’re mine, and they don’t have the fucking _right_.”  
  
“You can’t—” and this is supposed to be what he wants to hear, is supposed to be the revelation he’s been waiting for, but it’s not. “You can’t just claim me, alright? That’s not how it works.”  
  
Cristiano shrinks back, stung, looks just as defeated, as broken, as Leo feels. “Then how? How is it supposed to work? Tell me, because I almost hit my own fucking best friend and I wouldn’t have even felt _sorry_ for it—”  
  
“I don’t know! I don’t know, but you can’t keep on fucking me and then pretend you don’t know me—”  
  
“You wanted—”  
  
“I know, okay?” Leo deflates, is just suddenly so tired, fatigue crashing down on him, catching up to him like miles on a run, the ticking of a clock, the reality that all of this was never supposed to be real for them. “I know. But I still wanted to be your friend, not someone you had to feel sorry for even if it was just the two of us. I didn’t want to be some charity case.”  
  
Cristiano doesn’t say anything back, and there’s a sinking in Leo’s stomach, tells him that this really is the end, that they’ve just been prolonging it. But then Cristiano is suddenly in front of him, reaches out and stops, is the first time Cristiano, all surety and confidence brimming at his seams, has ever been hesitant with him, has ever asked and not just taken. “You’re not.”  
  
Leo looks up at him, “You don’t mean it,” hates the way his voice shakes, hates that when it comes to Cristiano, he’s always been weak.  
  
“The first time,” Cristiano starts, casts his eyes somewhere behind Leo, licks his lips, “The first time, I just did it because I knew it was easy. I knew you’d be someone I wouldn’t have to care about. Like I’d be able to see you anywhere, and I wouldn’t feel anything,” he laughs softly, but it just sounds wrecked to Leo’s ears, “But then you were everywhere, and you’d always be alone and it made me so fucking mad—and I thought, at first, I thought that it was just because I felt sorry for you, I thought that’s what it all was. It still didn’t mean anything, I still didn’t care—”  
  
Cristiano looks up, darts his eyes back to his. Leo doesn’t breathe, gives patience, hope, Cristiano, a chance. “And now?”  
  
“Now,” Cristiano says. “I do.” And Cristiano kisses him, lets everything else he wants to say spill out onto Leo’s lips, doesn’t speak but means exactly enough.  
  
Leo’s thought for the past weeks that he’d finally gotten to know some parts of Cristiano; how he hates Bio because it’s all memorization, and all he has is a short attention span; how he spends time, care, for the craft that’s fixing his hair, can spend minutes to an hour just paying attention to how his hair buoys, lifted up by the disgusting amount of hairgel he uses; how his father’s gone and it hurts him, even if he pretends it doesn’t, hides it behind that veneer of toughness, the only side to him that the rest of the school sees; how it makes it even better when he smiles, because every line around his eyes is meant, sincere; how he laughs and it makes him tangible, someone Leo doesn’t have to pinch himself for to know that he isn’t just a dream.  
  
But none of its sum can be as substantial as this, as right now, because Cristiano’s kissing him bare, raw, offers Leo everything he has, and Leo doesn’t think he’s known Cristiano better than he does at this moment, doesn’t think he’s ever been truer, more real, than he is now.  
  
Cristiano undresses him delicately, lays him down gently on his bed. He takes his time stretching Leo with a hand, doesn’t go farther until Leo’s begging, giving permission, cries out a shattered, “ _Cristiano_ ,” and has him already fixing the cracks, pushing inside Leo like it’s what makes him complete. He fucks him slowly, carefully; when he comes, it’s with a whisper of _Leo_ across the expanse of his skin, sinks into him in three words, in _I love you_ s and _I’m only yours_ , and Leo wouldn’t mind anymore if Cristiano claims him as his, has been true since the moment they started this, will probably always be.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“I’m sorry,” Cristiano says afterward. They’re just lying in bed now, has Cristiano drawing nonsensical shapes against the skin on his back, traces and retraces it to how Leo arches onto his fingers, searching for more of his touch. “Don’t listen to my bullshit. Pipita’s a good guy. So's the rest of them.”  
  
Leo laughs. “Am I allowed to be friends with them then?”  
  
He means it as a joke, but Cristiano doesn’t roll his eyes like Leo expects, rolls on his side instead so that he’s facing Leo completely. “You don’t need my permission, alright? I was being a dick. I’m sorry.”  
  
Leo’s breath catches at the sincerity of Cristiano’s words, how his eyes hold repentance, as if brown was the colour of his atonement.  
  
But there’s nothing left to forgive, because Leo’s forgiven Cristiano long before he had ever even asked for it. “Okay.” And Cristiano kisses him softly, feather-light, and maybe he’s understood that.  
  
Still, he asked, and that makes all the difference to Leo. “I don’t need you to sit beside me at lunch,” Leo says, murmurs it onto Cristiano’s chest, has his legs tangled with Cristiano’s underneath the sheets. “I just need you like this.”  
  
Cristiano pulls him closer, presses a soft kiss against the thrum of his temple, asks, “Is that really what you want?”  
  
Leo watches the way Cristiano’s lids droop halfway from the call of sleep, watches the way his hair curls underneath the spike of his gel, watches the way his mouth moves when he speaks, lazy, loving, and all Leo feels is contentment, feels satisfaction awash over him that's too good to be real.  
  
But Leo's done dwelling. “Yeah,” he says, props his chin on the juncture of Cristiano’s neck, “It really is.”  
  
For now, Leo thinks, it’s more than real. It’s enough.  
  



End file.
